


stocking stuffers

by ruruka



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types
Genre: Fingering, M/M, Oral Sex, Sex, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-26
Updated: 2016-12-26
Packaged: 2018-09-12 06:04:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9058804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ruruka/pseuds/ruruka
Summary: what's more traditional than fucking on christmas





	

he hates most things.

hates most things, inclusive but not limited to, puppies and rain and pocket lint. he hates that new scissors come in packages that have to be cut open with scissors. and mittens, because who the fuck thought those would be a good idea.

he hates, too, the way the lights of the tree glint off of his glasses, marring his ability to see the made for tv christmas special (which of course he also hates) he's been roped into watching yet again.

he does not despise the holiday as a whole, merely the festivities of it. he rather likes the gift aspect, and snow is just so lovely to catch repose to the sight of. candy, too- loves the stuff, and the month of december seems to bring along loads of it. candy and sweets. they're excellent.

the way his boyfriend's lips move around the hook of peppermint- now _that,_ he cannot stand.

it's better entertainment than watching a mutated reindeer miraculously save the day (as if it hadn't been predictable from the very _beginning_ ), though the switch of view comes with a toll.

a very hard, distracting toll, growing hotter with each swirl of tongue along the sticky candy rod.

" _makoto,"_ he's forced to say after a long moment, and his attention stays a brief moment plastered to the screen before he shifts from head resting at his shoulder to instead his chin, tugs the candy from his mouth the engage whatever conversation should follow. byakuya just _stares_ at him, at the reflections dancing in his pretty little hazels, the soft cowlicks peeking from his stupid _santa cap_ that he'd insisted was necessary even after their cat had had her fun tearing the cotton puff from the top (keeping her away from the tree had been taxing enough). byakuya just _stares_ at him, at the actual literal manifested love of his entire life, the one he's spent the last half hour cuddling and watching a ridiculous christmas movie with and- and he leans forward, the slightest touch, just to feel the softness of their mouths twined, because nine:thirteen pm december twenty-fifth is as good a time as any to kiss the actual literal manifested love of his entire life.

his chest skips at the curve felt blatant into it, and he can't complain about the shock of peppermint when makoto is so gorgeous in the multicolored shimmer. he whispers the softest _i love you_ against the angle of his cheekbone, which byakuya accepts by way of a breath gone lost in quiet humming.

then he remembers just exactly what'd caught him, where he'd lost direction in the gleam of his eyes; makoto takes to resume prior position, teeth working along the scarlet stripes of mint.

" _that_ ," byakuya again attempts, solidly certain he'll savor his composure this time, "you've got to be doing that on purpose."

lashes bat in his next glance upward. there's an agonizing up-down of his mouth against it again, eye contact enough to tighten throats.

"doing what?" comes after the pop off, comes before the absolutely devilish spread of a grin that says he knows just exactly what he's doing; byakuya swallows and huffs a shallow sigh to make believe vexation. when he answers a snide _being a slut_ , he's granted only the sweetest wiggle of hips that proves further his point and heats further his clenched thighs.

"oh, _no,"_ and it's just so _fake_ byakuya's eyes nearly roll on their own accord. they snap back to hazy attentive at the hot breath bleeding against his neck, the roll of the most subtle sultry through his voice. "am i on the naughty list this year?"

he'd laugh at the asininity of the cliche, were he not whipped the hottest mess of turned on by it. by the words and the tone and the circulation of his waist, and he's still so sexy even dressed to the negative nines in pajamas and ugly red snowflake sweater that byakuya can't help giving into the tease.

"you are." a hand adjusts his frames into faultless place, then falls to a fold on arms. "you've been exceedingly... _naughty,_ and there must be repercussions."

makoto trills a sexy purr of question as he shifts to straddle his boyfriend's hips, chests pressed in flush. he traces the plush of his bottom lip with the candy cane's end, sharpened and void of color from its idle licking. byakuya eyes him in scandal. it goes back into his mouth, but before he's to complete a full _suck,_ it's thieved and dropped hard enough to crack to the side table. grouses haven't the chance to leave him; his lips seal to the pair they match so well.

they allow mutually to claim the ease of a make out. makoto's tongue rolls hot along the other's, slow drags of lips against each other and kisses pressed to mouths' corners. he relaxes forward, flat closely to his chest and hands of another placed at the backs of his spread thighs. his own cup byakuya by the jaw, strong and angular against the softness of his palms. quivers work from back to neck, mouth opening widely to accept further the familiarly foreign tongue into it.

there's a harsh movement, a blink- the room presses into dark aside from the twinkle of the strung lights. "rudolph is _not_ watching us fuck."

makoto tips his head into a laugh, brought forward again by cajoling fingers that twist him all too perfect. byakuya kisses color onto his face. those deliciously awful hips wriggle another time, and then it's a mess of rush and shifting, and makoto hopes, vaguely, that the lingering peppermint won't burn too badly. if it does- he cavils not. the very opposite comes, actually; a lean of neck into sofa cushions, curl of hands into brunette (sans, now, the gaudy adornment), rolls of groans from the back of his throat. carpet bites into makoto's kneecaps. he sinks his mouth entirely around the heat of his lover's stiff cock.

togami byakuya hates most things. blow jobs certainly aren't of them.

and neither- to remain a saint -is the one delivering it now. togami byakuya loves naegi makoto; it's as simple as that.

togami byakuya loves the way naegi makoto looks, acts, sounds, feels. he loves the tenderness spiraling his round hazel eyes, adores gallantly the position in which they shan't fall asunder, and the lashes against his cheekbones are soft and dark. lower still, on that face mocking porcelain delicacy, he loves how his kisses taste after moonlight turns their bedroom into a lake of frosted glass.

or, in this case, the living room, because they're just _such_ classy boys.

byakuya isn't sure when the blowing ceased, but he knows he's matching stares next with the drool down makoto's chin, and he knows he hasn't come yet. which annoys him the slightest, because it's _christmas_ , for fuck's sake- but he figures in a moment's notice that he'll receive his present soon enough.

he isn't sure when the blowing ceased, and isn't sure, either, when makoto had the time to remove all of his clothing (aside from his socks and sweater, its hem still teasing his nude thighs), but he's absolutely positively one hundred percent certain he's glad it has happened.

because, while he idolizes eloquence, he looks really fucking sexy.

"byakuya," he mewls with a bite to his lip that drives him just _crazy_. a delicate splay of fingertips runs along his sweater's hem. the amount of light behind him glows just enough to illuminate the ghost of it lifting, lifting, lifting, and byakuya's leant far enough forward in his brainless ogling for his glasses to fall into his lap. he drops them atop the crumbled candy cane that started this whole mess, and makoto burns sanguine at the low-lit form of, according to his intelligence, the most handsome man in the entire universe.

then it's not his glasses in his lap, but skin on skin in another straddled mess of legs. his throat is dry against the words; "kiss me." compliance coalesces to fervency. the wetness against his thighs brings forth more. makoto gasps against his mouth, hot and aching, and the hands on his waist lift just so to allow their connection.

he _moans_ within the initial seconds, tilting back to grasp his ankles in an arch. byakuya stays firmly still, though his lungs scream in their shallow huffing, and he thinks if he were any more aroused he'd literally fucking die right now; but he's a good boy, and more over a good boy _friend_ , so he sits in silent permission while his erection is used like a personal hitachi wand. it's not as though he's not gaining pleasure from it, anyway. quite the contrary.

makoto gasps again, throaty, breathy, airy, lifts himself half a ruler's length and back to the hilt, throbbing in the wanton need to be full. the depth inside him makes the other groan, nails digging into hips once they move to rest there. his ankles, at last, are released and swung more forward, and makoto clings to his shoulders. he presses his face into the left crook of them, his face, his kisses, his drooly little mewls and moans that shoot electricity through byakuya's tendons.

chests together, hearts in fluttering sync, he thrusts upward, all clenching hotness and fluids dripping down him. makoto- _guess_ -moans, buries his nose into his neck and argues with steady breaths. he moves in such a fashion that makes all byakuya's parts pulsate in the most delectable way.

he hates most things, but he can't ever get enough of his boyfriend's pussy pulsing tight around his pounding length, or the breathless noises in his ear, or or or- oh, _fuck_ , there's about as much point in coherent thinking right now as there is in wearing mittens. he thrusts into him another time, and he swears the sound makoto unleashes is a literal _sob_ of pleasure. naturally, the thought only makes him hornier; he adores having his ego stroked nearly as much as his dick, and knowing he's enough sex appeal to make someone _this_ turned on is the equivalent to a narcissism handjob.

but- who needs a handy when he's sheath deep in soaking wet vag? certainly not togami byakuya.

"byaku- _ohh_ , my _god_ -" his eyes pinch shut with a breathy pant. "byakuya, oh, holy _fuck_ , baby-" and he despises the pet names nine times out of ten, but he supposes he can tolerate them in the spirit of the holiday, so he throws him an even harder pounding of cock. again, makoto leans back to finagle their positioning at his most favorite sweet spot, and byakuya takes the opportunity to be an absolute demon. two fingers graze along his tongue before dipping to rub at makoto's clit, exposed newly by his leaning and positively  _throbbing_ ; this time, it's a definite cry of both incoherent pleasured sounds and a garbled string of his name on loop. he moves the rubbing up down down up down, twinning his ceaseless thrusts.

no surprise finds him when makoto gushes a gooey mess across his fingers. his body practically ragdolls over byakuya's shoulder while he finishes for himself. a mix of both their come drips from his hole once he's enough composure to remove himself and sit in his actual lap rather than on his dick.

"not the exact christmas gift i was expecting," byakuya murmurs into the crackling hearth of labored breaths, "though i can't bring myself to complain."

lights glimmer against their paleness. makoto adds his own opinion after a yawn into his shoulder; "good tradition. we should start doing this every year."

he snorts derisive humor, presses a kiss to the perspiration beneath his mussed bangs. 

there's certainly no opposition on his end.

**Author's Note:**

> happy holidays no gross comments please


End file.
